Sanity's Sake
by Blue Buick R
Summary: Wilson is in a bit of a jam, House helps him out.


Title: Sanity's Sake  
Author: BlueBuickR  
Summary: Wilson is in a bit of a jam, House helps him out.  
Rating: I'd say R  
Dislcaimer: Not mine. No money. Just fun.  
Warnings: General spoilers for season 2, blood and gore, disturbing images, minor character death.  
Notes: This is a darkfic. It's different than your average House fair. There is angst and some pretty disturbing situations. Do not read if this type of thing bothers you. I'd greatly appreciate any comments anyone has on the piece, it's different than what I usually write in both style and content.

Most times he didn't bother answering his phone. The machine would kick in eventually and the people who ever bothered to call him, unless it was a wrong number, knew to say what they had to say and he would either pick up or he wasn't interested. On this particular occasion he'd been tinkering away at the piano when it rang. He hardly paid any attention when the machine ticked on and started recording, a small scratchy voice issuing from the speaker.

"House, pick up."

As he played idly around with the keys, somewhere in the back of his mind he registered Wilson's voice.

"Pick up, damn you! Pick up, pick up, pick up!" followed.

House stilled his fingers and finally turned his attention toward the answering machine, cocking his head slightly as Wilson's rising panic filled his living room.

"I'm in soooo much trouble here," he continued hoarsely, then forced out a laugh with very little humour in it.

He got up.

"Leaves every mess you've ever landed youself in look like…" the voice trailed off and a heavy silence followed.

House picked up the pace of his hobble as he made a grab for the phone, afraid Wilson was going to hang up or that the machine would cut him off. He stabbed the 'talk' button on the face on the phone just as he collapsed onto the sofa with a leg jarring thump.

"Where are you?" he gritted out.

There was an audible sigh, sounding like relief, in his ear.

"The house," Wilson said.

"Yours and Julie's?" he asked for clarification.

"Y-yes," a dry sob this time and House actually felt a twinge of alarm twist somewhere around his belly button.

"What's wrong?" more details, he needed more details.

There was a long pause and for a moment he though he'd lost the connection, then, "I need you…I just need you to come over here." Breath. "Please!"

"Alright," he tried to sooth but knew was failing miserably. "I'll be there as soon as I can."

"Don't drive like a maniac and end up killing yourself on that death trap," Wilson rushed out. "I don't think I could…just be careful please."

Two pleases in less than a minute. That clenching in his stomach was starting to move towards his chest.

"Fine, just, wait for me…and whatever the problem is don't do anything until I get there, alright?"

No response.

"Wilson?"

"Okay, yeah, alright."

"Alright. I'm hanging up now," he warned.

"Yeah," hushed agreement. "Greg? Hurry." Dial tone droning in the place of a familiar voice.

"Son of a bitch!" House spat, dashing the phone into the couch cushions and not even caring when it bounced and landed on the hardwood with a sickening crack.

Hauling himself to his feet he quickly made his way to the closet to get his shoes and coat. In his haste to be out the door he struggled with the running shoes, stepping and crushing the backs down as he jammed his feet in, making it that much more difficult when he was finally forced to sit down and pull the damn things on. Out the door and onto the street in more time than he would have liked he made up for it when he got on the bike. Despite Wilson's plea he floored her when he could and wove in and out of traffic when even the slightest opening presented itself, managing to clip his left knee during one particularly snug manoeuvre and hardly feeling it.

He slowed down a bit when he made it to the proper street, keeping an eye out for anything suspicious as he rolled up to the house. Other than Wilson's car parked out front nothing seemed out of place. He swung himself off the bike and made his way to the front door, hesitating only briefly before turning the knob and pushing it open.

"Wilson?" he called as he took a step inside.

"Over here," was the calm reply to the right.

Making his way further into the entranceway he finally caught sight of Wilson sitting on the last step of the staircase to the second floor. Julie was there too.

"Every divorcees dream," he quipped as he moved forward carefully, taking in the body sprawled at the bottom of the stairs, neck obviously broken, dark hair a frightful mess. He couldn't see her face. She was turned towards Wilson. That twist had lodged itself in his throat.

"You must have run every red light from here to your place," Wilson said in answer as he checked his watched casually. 

"You told me to hurry," House reminded him as he stopped a few feet away from the tableau, planting his cane firmly on the floor before leaning forward on it with both hands.

"I also told you to be careful," Wilson snapped.

"A little contradictory there, but considering the circumstances I won't hold it against you." House watched as Wilson pursed his lips firmly together, eyes flitting about the room, but always skittering over the body at his feet. "What happened?"

Wilson swallowed audibly. "I came over to pick up the rest of my stuff and drop of my keys. She was here. We got into a bit of a shouting match at the top of the stairs. She hit me," he indicated his cheek. "Slapped me. She was going to do it again so I grabbed her wrist." He shrugged. "She yanked herself out of my grip and…"

"Did a Greg Lou down the stairs," House finished for him. "Without the ten point landing."

Wilson nodded. "I knew right away. I stood there in shock looking down at her, but I knew, I could see it from the angle of her head."

House pushed his cane forward and nudge said head, noting how it moved much more loosely than it should, even for a corpse. "Probably spinal shock. Transected spinal cord. Sudden loss of the nerve supply to the body, with an abrupt and profound drop in BP. Death most likely instantaneous." 

"I have to call the police," Wilson suddenly said, eyes finally settling on Julie following House's diagnosis.

House snorted. "Are you sure you didn't take a tumble down the stairs as well? You're not calling anyone."

"I have to," Wilson asserted. "I can't just leave her here, it was an accident, the police have to be informed."

"So they can what?" he snarled. "Haul you off in the paddywagon? Cuckolded exes and broken neckses do not a good defence make. You call the cops and I'm outta here. See you in twenty." He turned to go, disgusted.

"Wait," Wilson called, voice cracking. "House, wait!"

He stopped and waited a moment with his back toward Wilson before he turned.

"What?" Wilson was looking at him, his eyes welling. "Why did you call me?" he pressed. "If you wanted to call the cops why did you call me and tell me to come over here?"

"I needed…I thought," Wilson let out a loud breath, pulling himself up to his feet by the banister. "I don't know."

House kept his face stoic. "I think you do."

"No," Wilson shook his head, stepping around the body and starting to pace between it and House.

"There's bruising on her wrist from where you grabbed her," House pointed out. "She obviously didn't slap you hard enough to leave some of her own so there is nothing to corroborate your story."

Wilson froze and turned wide pleading eyes in House direction. "How can I…"

"Don't worry," he forced himself to reach out and grab the younger man's shoulder, squeezing in what he thought was a comforting manner. "I'll do all the heavy lifting." He grinned. "Rhetorically speaking of course. The actual heavy lifting…" he pointed to Julie with his chin and let it hang.

"Oh, God," Wilson paled suddenly turning to the side, looking more than a little nauseous.

"Hey," House yelled, yanking him by the arm and shaking him roughly. "You are not booting it all over the floor, do you hear me? There is no evidence that you were here yet, no blood traces, and one would expect your fingerprints to be all over the place anyway."

Wilson grimaced but kept it together, shaking himself from House's grip while he ran a hand down his face, wiping away the cold sweat which suddenly broke out.

"Now go get a sheet or something to wrap her in while I go stow the bike around the corner," he instructed. "I don't want people noticing it was here."

He took his time hiding the bike, giving Wilson some space to pull himself together. On the way back to the house he cast a quick glance in the back seat of Wilson's car noting with satisfaction that the little boy scout still kept an emergency medical bag there. It would come in handy today, and not for the purposes it was originally assembled. 

Back inside Wilson was standing by the stairs again, waiting for House, a large paisley patterned sheet clutched in one hand.

"Is there a bottle of bleach anywhere?" House asked before his friend could utter a word.

Wilson blinked. "In the laundry room I think."

"Go get it," he said, and just as Wilson turned to go, absently trailing the sheet behind, him he added, "and some garbage bags too." There was a slight jerk to Wilson's shoulders at those words but other than that he obediently continued on his way.

Sighing and wishing for a good stiff drink to go along with the two vicodin he just swallowed House took a good look at Jul…at the body, trying to work out in his head the best way to go about things. His plan was pretty much formulated by the time Wilson returned with the bleach.

"Okay," he said. "This is how we're going to do things. I noticed there were a few boxes near the door, your crap I take it?" When he received a nod in the affirmative he continued. "We're going to go and bring some of that stuff to the car, then we'll bring Julie bundled up nice and snug in the sheet, it'll look like a load of dirty laundry or something, then some more of your stuff. If anyone sees us it'll just look like two guys moving some shit."

"And then?" Wilson asked, setting the bleach down almost mechanically and moving to start wrapping the body in the sheet.

"I'll tell you when we get there," House evaded, hooking his cane around the nearest appendage and helping Wilson position the body in the most efficient way.

In less than fifteen minutes they had loaded the car with both Wilson's garbage…and Wilson's garbage. Not a soul in sight. As his friend loped back to lock up the front door House slid into the driver's seat of the big Mercedes, adjusting the seat for his longer legs. A moment later Wilson threw himself into the passenger side.

"Keys?" House asked, hand held out.

"Why are you driving?" the oncologist asked even as he handed them over.

Inserting the right key and twisting it almost violently House sneered as the car roared to life. "Because you're a basket case at the moment and I think one fatal accident at your hands is enough for one day, don't you think?"

Stung, Wilson physically recoiled, pressing himself into the door, hands clenched tight.

Looking at the pitiful figure at his side out of the corner of his eye House tried to unclench his jaw and relax. "Just shut up and let me handle this okay," he chided, shifting into gear and pulling out onto the road.

They drove in silence for a while; the afternoon light slowly fading and the dead weight ferreted away in the trunk almost tangible. It wasn't long before Wilson settled himself back into his seat and House noticed his left hand surreptitiously snaking out to brush the handle of his cane. He would rest his hand between the two seats, his fingers a hairs breath away from where the cane sat leaning between them, his pinkie or middle finger stretching out to brush against the worn surface of the curved handle. House sped up.

It didn't take them long to get to where they wanted to go, House knew the place well. Pulling into the parking lot of the motel he shut the engine off, listening to it tick quietly as it cooled down before turning to the still silent and still Wilson.

"You go in and rent us a room, use a fake name, I don't care what, Johnny Uptight or whatever. Pay cash, no plastic, no paper trail."

"Why can't you do it?" Wilson asked a slight note of indignity creeping into his voice.

"Because a man with a limp is memorable, a nervous suit isn't, they're practically this place's only clientele."

House could see Wilson struggle to bite back a retort, and in the end he succeeded by throwing open the car door and stalking toward motel reception. Alone for the moment he leaned back into the seat, tilting his head up and firmly pressing the heel of his hands into his eyes; when he blinked them open again after a moment, black spots hovered in his field of vision before slowly fading. He was still staring at the ceiling of the car when Wilson returned with their room number and key.

"Room 15, just around the corner," he said as he got back into the car, small grody key attached to a large red plastic key chain hooked through his index finger.

House forced a swallow past his throat, tilted head making matters painful and loud.

"We'll bring in your medical bad and bleach first, then when the coast is clear what's in the trunk," he said as he straightened out and started the car.

Driving quietly across the dim parking lot and around the corner they pulled into their spot in front of room 15. House didn't wait for Wilson to move, he levered himself out of the car as soon as he shut it off, having had enough of long pauses and awkward stillness for one afternoon. He could see them now, sitting there in the dark, faces forward, no one moving or speaking, breaths heavy, the body in the trunk an ominous third party. Who would act first? What were they to do now? Would these clichés ever end? 

Pivoting on his heel he ducked back to stick his head through the open door.

"You coming?" he asked the still unmoving Wilson while reaching around to the back seat to grab the medical bag. Wilson turned his head slowly to stare at him, eyes curious, probing. House didn't like it. "Bring the bleach and bags," he says gruffly and pulled back out of the car, slamming the door shut much harder than was necessary.

It was only a few steps to the door but he was impatient, tapping his cane on the walkway as he waited for Wilson to join him and open up the damn room. They bumped each other on their way inside, both stepping forward at the same time, shoulders brushing. House lost his balance and knocked his shoulder and sore knee against the door frame; cursing as Wilson instinctively steadied him even as he groped for the light switch.

The room suddenly blinked into colour and focus, the dull green carpet, cracked beige walls, and ugly floral bedspread assaulting their eyes more than the sudden brightness. The room was cool and smelt of cigarettes. House noted the television bolted to the dresser of drawers.

He tossed the medical bag onto the bed before sitting down himself, the coarse, almost plastic like quality to the bedspread scratching against his jeans. There was a framed print of a typical Monet hanging crookedly on the wall.

"What now?" Wilson asked as he sloshed the bleach around the jug in his hands.

House shrugged out of his coat and sidled a little further back on the bed, dragging the pillows out from their tuck to stuff behind his back.

"Just give me a second to rest and we can go get her out of the trunk," he said, grabbing the duct tape swaddled remote from the bedside table and turning on the tv. He settled on some syndicated crap-fest with jungles and dinosaurs and damsels in distress without much to dress. He closed his eyes. A moment or two later he felt the bed dip as Wilson sat down. House thought he was touching his cane again, but refused to crack an eye open to confirm his suspicion.

"Go see if anyone's around," he said instead.

The bed jostled again and House heard the door open as Wilson stepped out to take a look around.

"I don't see anyone," he called back. "The rooms on both sides of us are dark and there aren't any other cars parked."

"Do you think you can get her out and in here on your own?"

"Yeah," Wilson replied before leaving the room.

House is still resting his eyes, a woman screaming on the tv, when Wilson shuffled back in, and House can't help but grin. He blinked his eyes open to see his friend standing near the foot of the bed, the sheet bundled body of his wife in his arms.

"Let's get the clothes off her first," he instructed, scooting over to the edge of the bed on his butt.

"What…why?" Wilson asked sharply, tightening his hold on the body.

"Don't worry," House scoffed making a grab for the sheet, trying to pull the whole bundle out of Wilson's arms and onto the bed. "This isn't where you discover I'm a closet necrophiliac with a taste for threesomes."

"Jesus Christ," Wilson spat, letting go of the body and letting it tumble nearly onto Houses' lap.

"Hey, watch it!" he squawked, instantly stripping off the sheet and starting on the clothes. It's but a moment before Wilson's hands are fumbling next to his.

"Bra and panties too," House instructed as they uncover cold skin. "We'll drop the clothes off in a Goodwill bin, or toss them to the next homeless chick we see. The underwear we can shred up and flush."

Finishing up, Wilson stepped back and looked down at the nude form lying on the bed next to House, his eyes pained.

"It's not the woman you made love to, Wilson," House told him firmly, seeing the wheels turning behind those dark eyes. "It's just a sack of already decaying organs and tissue."

Wilson snorted, moving his gaze from the body to just over House's right shoulder. "That's easy for you to say. You've never seen somebody you loved like…like this. Broken and stripped naked on diseased motel bed."

House rolled his eyes. "Well, then you're going to love the next bit," he drawled, pulling the medical bag over to his side and rummaging around until he finds a plastic capped scalpel, brandishing it above him with a flourish. "Get her in the tub."

House swore Wilson's eyes almost pop out of his skull. "You can't be serious!" he bleats.

"Pieces of a body are a hell of a lot harder to find and identify than a complete corpse," he snapped, fed up. "I'm going to quarter her in six, stuff the pieces in garbage bags and scattered them half way across the county, while you wait for me here and drain that bottle of bleach in the tub to compromise any DNA evidence. Now, put it in the tub!"

Wilson tightened his mouth, stooped to gather up the body, and moved toward the bathroom, House following. He settled her into the tub, pulling the mouldy plastic curtain to one end and lifting it up to hang over the curtain rod and out of the way.

House squeezed his way inside the tiny room, twirling the scalpel around in his fingers. "I might want to pull out the teeth just in case someone stumbles across the head and they can identify her by dental records. You don't happen to have any pliers in the car do you?" 

"No," Wilson deadpanned.

House sighed, pliers would have been nice. "Do you know if she had some sort of record? Any reason they would have her prints on file?" he continued along the same vein.

"No, of course not!" Wilson sounded shocked, and House had to smile.

"Who knows? She might have moonlighted as a party girl," he leered.

"You'd know before me," Wilson jabbed.

"True," House mused, tapping the plastic covered blade of the scalpel against his lips. "You didn't know she was screwing around behind your back until she tossed you out on your ear…and onto my couch."

There was another of those tense silences House was trying vainly to prevent before Wilson spoke again.

"Are you really going to cut her up?"

He cracked his neck. "All along the joints so I won't have to go through bone. Arms, legs, neck. Should be simple enough, but messy. That's why the motel. If they're ever looking for evidence they'll start at the house, then your place, maybe even mine, but it's not possible for them to search every hotel and motel in the state, they wouldn't know where to start." He uncapped the scalpel. "Now get out of here and close the door behind you."

Wilson did not need to be told twice; he backed out of the room and closed the door before House could carefully lower himself to his knees by the tub, using the toilet seat to steady himself on the way down. It hurt. He hurt. Pulling out the pair of rubber gloves he stuffed in his pocket, he snapped them on, reached for the nearest body part and started cutting.

It was tougher going that he thought, cutting through the ligaments, cartilage and muscle which held limb to torso. He kept slipping against bone, the tip of the scalpel lodging in the sockets. Another pair of hands would have been welcome as he tried to hold and manipulate the appendages while he cut. The side of the tub was in the way as he leaned forward, cold against his belly, leeching away heat. His legs quivered and ached as he tried to keep himself balanced. Blood seeped from the incisions, slicking Julie's slowly deconstructed body, the bottom of the tub, his hands. His nose itched. He wanted to call for Wilson. He didn't.

He decided to do the teeth before he separated the head from the torso, thinking it would be easier to cut or knock them out if it was fixed to something heavier. It was hard work, and half way through House slit the mouth open wider, slicing through the skin from the corner of the lips to the hinge of the jaw to make more room for his hands. There was very little blood here. One by one he pried or broke a tooth free and plunked it into the nearby toilet bowl to flush later. When all that was left was a mouth full of gaping gums he twisted the head around to start in on the neck. It was the easiest of all.

Sitting back on his heels he let the head drop into the tub with an echoing thump, his right thigh pulling sharply.

"Wilson?" he called, trying to scratch his nose with his wrist, while trying not to smear any blood from his glove onto his face.

"Yes?" came the muffled reply close to the door.

"Pass me those garbage bags will you?" he contemplated things for a second then, "and my pills, I need a pill." He didn't know how long it had been since those two at the house, but it didn't feel like it was too soon. Besides a third a little early wasn't an overdose by any means. He might be a little punchy but nothing the adrenaline and stress wouldn't counteract.

Wilson appeared a moment later, bags and prescription bottle in hand. House still on his knees, twisted around and opened his mouth expectantly, holding his gore covered hands away from his body. Wilson took in House and the contents of the bathtub behind him while he twisted the cap off the bottle. He seemed calm enough. He was either in shock or managed to disassociate himself from things during his long wait for House to finish the butchering. It probably didn't even look like a real person anymore. Just a pile of exsanguinated body parts, like any other found in med school labs dissected or stored floating in formaldehyde. He pinched out a pill and placed it on House's tongue. With the tang of iron filling his nostrils and mouth it tasted sweet.

"Get a bag open and hold it low over the tub, I'll put the pieces in," he said after he swallowed.

Still silent, Wilson stuff the pill bottle back in his pocket and shook one of the green garbage bags open, holding the mouth of the bag wide, ready to receive. Each part went into a separate bag - arms first, then legs, head, and finally the torso. It seemed small and pitiful alone in the tub, a faceless, shapeless trunk with a pair of slack breast. A quick twist on Wilson's part and the bags were tied off and set to the side. When the tub was finally empty save for the puddle of congealing blood at the bottom, House turned the hot water tap on and pulled the little plunger which switch the shower on, watching the water beat down, turn pink, and run down the drain. Satisfied, he carefully pulled the gloves off and tossed them in the toilet to join Julie's two thousand dollar orthodontic work, punctuating the move with a flush.

He didn't get up off the floor immediately, didn't think he could. He knelt there on the bathroom floor his frustration rising. He'd just been wrist deep in some pretty gruesome work, was watching the remnants wash down the drain, and he couldn't even get up off the damn floor. House couldn't really think of anything more pathetic.

"Help me up," he finally growled at Wilson who was still hovering at his side, not knowing what to do with his hands or eyes.

Seemingly reassured by the demand the oncologist helped hoist House to his feet, turning the water on in the sink for him to wash his hands.

"We'll load those bags in the car and I'll go for a little drive. Better you don't know where," House hurried to add when he saw the other man open his mouth to ask. "While I'm gone I want you to scrub the bathroom down, pour most of the bleach in the tub and down the drain. Any blood traces should be compromised beyond use."

"I think you've been watching too much CSI," Wilson grimaced.

"Hey, that show is a criminal's best friend! Now we know all the tricks."

"Is that what we are? Criminals now?" Wilson's grimace grew.

"For fuck's sake!" House exclaimed. "Will you get your head out of your ass and think about things for a moment? It was an accident right?" A tentative node was his only reply. "You didn't want to go to jail, right?" Another more emphatic nod. "Your career and reputation would have been in the crapper whether they decided to charged you or not. People talk, people speculate, people are stupid judgemental pricks. She's dead. Whether you sit around and rot in a jail cell taking big Jim Magilicutty up the ass, or if I hack your ex up like a side of beef and stuff her in garbage bags, that fact isn't going to change." He grabbed his cane getting ready to leave. "Now I'm not going to give this buck up and get with the program speech again so put a cork in it and help me get these things to the car, then start the cleanup."

Wilson bent down to grab one of the bags. "You're right," he said as he straightened, looking House straight in the eye. "You're right. Even when you're crazy and committing felonies, you're always so infuriatingly right. I don't want to go to prison, or see my career and relationships disintegrate around me. I didn't really want to call the cops, or stop you from cutting her up. I don't want you to not dispose of these either," he hefted the bag. "But for my sanity's sake, House, I have to say I do. Most people have to lie to themselves just to get by; they have to believe that they want to do the right thing, even if they don't. I have to believe. We're not you. I'm not you." He bent and snagged another bag, only taking his eyes off of House's face long enough to complete the action. "That's why I called. I'm not you, but I needed you. Need you."

House met his gaze for an agonizing moment before jerking his head once and making his way to the door, grabbing his coat on the way by. He waited in the driver's seat drumming his fingers on the steering wheel while Wilson stuffed the trunk, taking two more trips back to the room before he was finished. As soon as the trunk was slammed closed House started the car and backed out, sparing Wilson only the most cursory of glances through the passenger side window as he stood to the side watching House drive away. He allowed himself to look a little longer through the rear-view mirror once he'd straightened out and headed for the highway.

It turned out to be a little more difficult than he supposed, finding good places to dump body parts. He drove around keeping an eye out, assessing and discarding possible sights for any number of reasons, most having to do with fears of discovery. He was being a little over cautious he supposed, but he firmly believed a little paranoia went a long way towards saving one's neck. It was close to midnight by the time he returned to the motel, trunk empty, feet, back and legs aching. He covered a good deal of ground both in the car and on foot but was relatively sure no one was going to find any piece of Julie Wilson. And if they did, there was very little chance of identification. He made sure of that.

Pulling up to number 15 he left the car running and watched as Wilson opened the door, his body brightly illuminated by headlights. He got out of the car.

"Everything cleaned up?" he asked leaning heavily on the roof.

"Yup," Wilson replied.

"Alright, get the clothes and the bottle of bleach and we can get the hell out of this dump," House continued wearily. He walked around the front of the car on his way to the passenger side. "You're driving," he said as he tossed the keys to Wilson on his way past.

Wilson raised his eyebrows. "Am I less likely to plough us into a three and kill us both in a fiery explosion now than I was a few hours ago?"

House opened the passenger door. "Yes," he said succinctly. "Besides, I'll take the risk, I need a break before we go get the bike or I'll end up planting the thing into the nearest light post or little old lady."

"Check," the other man agreed, quickly turning back inside the room to grab the discarded clothes and empty bleach bottle.

Turning off the lights and setting the room key on the bedside table Wilson locked the door from the inside and pulled it shut. He slid into the driver's seat, tossing the bleach bottle, paisley sheet and clothes into the back.

"We'll go pick up the bike, I'll drive it home," House suggested as Wilson closed the car door. The interior of the car filled with acrid the scent of bleach almost instantly.

"Can...," Wilson worked some more spit into his mouth before trying again, backing the car out in the meantime. "Can I stay at your place tonight?" he finally managed to get out, keeping his eyes firmly on the road and away from House's.

"I kind of assumed you were," he admitted with a shrug. He refused to notice the relief smoothing Wilson's face at the admission, the tensile set to his shoulders and neck visibly dissolving. "Take the scenic route back to the bike," he added after a moment of thought. "We can toss the clothes out the window to the next bum we see without having to get out of the car."

"A drive by dressing?" Wilson's lips quirked.

House quirked his back briefly before resting his head against the window and closing his eyes.

He didn't know how long he drifted before Wilson cleared in throat, bringing him out a light dose.

"We're, ummm, in the general area I think."

He opened his eyes and peered out the window. Run down buildings, razor wire, and the occasional street walker peppered the landscape. Stretching to grab the clothes out of the back seat House rolled his window down and looked for an appropriate beneficiary. Spotting a good prospect a little ways down the road he told Wilson to slow down. She looked older than she most likely was, draped in more ratty sweaters and jackets than the weather called for, an overloaded folding metal basket on wheels skittering along behind her. She was of the pack rat variety of homeless. Picking up useful and unless scraps of anything and stuffing them in a cart, carrying it around wherever they went, never using half the junk. Perfect.

"Hey grandma," he called as Wilson passed by at a snails pace. When she looked up from her contemplation of the gritty pavement at the sound of his voice he tossed the handful of clothes right in her face. She never got a good look at him. "Punch it," he told Wilson, quickly rolling the window back up.

The wheels squealed and then they were peeling down the street in an instant. Got to love those luxury cars, they really did pick it up much better than your average squirrel-mobile.

"Well that's my good deed for the year," he said as he sat back, heart racing only slightly.

"I think the fact that you got the clothes off a dead body negates any positive karma," Wilson pointed out.

"If the universe is going to be picky like that why do I even try?" House scoffed.

"You don't."

The rest of the trip went off without a hitch. They rolled into Wilson's old neighbourhood well past the witching hour, no one in their right little upper middle class minds even dreaming of being awake. That is until House revved the engine on his bike a few times before gunning it and racing through the empty street. Wilson followed along a little more slowly in the car.

He was just turning on the shower when he heard Wilson enter the apartment. "I'll go first, then you, then we can crash. It's way past your bedtime," he called over the sound of the spray.

He didn't linger under the scalding water. He really did want to sleep. A perfunctory soap and rise and he was out and be-towelled, passing Wilson on the way through the bathroom door. A quick stop to grab his pills and to pour himself a mouthful of booze and he was limping toward the bedroom, pausing only briefly to erase the phone message from earlier.

It took him longer than expected to get dressed for bed, once he sat down on the bed to toss back his last vic of the evening with the whiskey chaser he found it rather difficult to move. He was struggling with the t-shirt, his head finally popping out of the neck hole, when he discovered a still damp and boxer clad Wilson standing expectantly in the doorway.

"What?" he snapped.

"Can I borrow some clothes to sleep in?" Wilson requested calmly, although there was something in his eyes which House couldn't identify.

Flopping down onto his back House waved a hand in the general direction of his dresser. "Knock yourself out."

He was actually starting to drift off, the pill and the whiskey blurring the sounds of Wilson opening drawers and fumbling around as he dressed, when he was once again jerked into attention.

"House?" Wilson called.

"What?" he forced his eyes open glaring at the form looming over him from the side of the bed. "What, what, what?"

Wilson had donned in a pair of old sweats with the crotch practically worn out, an equally worn t-shirt completing the ensemble. House was sure there had to have been better choices than that in his drawers.

"Can I stay with you?" he asked fidgeting.

"I thought we already had this conversation," House pointed out.

"No I mean…" and instead of finishing the sentence he motioned towards the bed with a fluttering hand.

At this point in the proceedings House was just too wearied to make a lewd comment, or psychoanalyze, or even care. "Whatever, just go to sleep."

Pushing down the covers he managed to squirm his way beneath them, Wilson waiting until he was settled before climbing in as well. He thoughtfully shut off the light before lying down.

It was weird. Warmer. House held his breath knowing any moment now Wilson would speak.

"Why?" came before he had to exhale. 

"What are friends for?" he tried for glib.

"Not this, I don't think," Wilson's voice filled the dark. "Well at least I hope not."

House rolled quickly over onto his side. Even if he couldn't see Wilson, he could feel him. "Look, you're my only friend; I have a vested interest in keeping you in good health and standing. If I lost you I really would be as pathetic as everyone claims I am."

"I make that much of a difference, do I?"

"Dude, you have no idea how many times I've trotted you out as proof that I'm not a complete and utter failure at life. If Saint James of the Radiated Tumour thinks I'm worth it, who are they do say otherwise? You're like better than a congressional metal of honour or the Nobel peace prize."

"So what you're telling me is that everything you did tonight was for completely selfish reasons," Wilson clarified.

"Exactly," House confirmed in satisfaction, rolling back onto his back with a sigh.

"So I really shouldn't bother thanking you."

"No need."

"And that means I don't owe you in a way so profound that I may never, ever, manage to repay you."

House back-pedalled like a pro. "Now, now, let's not be too hasty here…"

Wilson tutted. "No, no, you made yourself perfectly clear. It was all for your benefit, House. All for you. Goodnight."

Grumbling under his breath House tried to relax again, find that state of semi trance he needed to slow his mind down enough to drift off to sleep. He wasn't managing it very well and almost decided to get up and pour another drink when he felt something touch the back of his hand. It was feather light, and for a moment he though he might have imagined it, or that a spider crawled by, but after a second or two it was back, a little firmer this time. The lightest of strokes.

"Thank you," Wilson breathed.

They were the last words uttered before sleep claimed them both.

House really had nothing left to say. 

Wilson might have been right about one thing - people needed to lie to themselves - but he was dead wrong about House not being like everyone else.

He believed Julie Wilson's fall down the stairs was an accident.

Even if it was a lie.

He could live with that.

End


End file.
